


For the Good of Many

by argle_fraster



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Gen, Marriage of Convenience, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was for their countries that Ashe and Larsa were married, and it has done both countries good, but the king and queen still make their own choices in matters of the heart.</p>
<p>[FF Exchange, Chocobo Races 2013, Team Shiva]</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Good of Many

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corollary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corollary/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: Ashe and Larsa: A marriage of convenience and of politics! Things that are love: Finding common ground, maybe not necessarily them falling in love so much as them learning to live with one another and find happiness in what is there, turning a blind eye to each other's extra-marital affairs. Any and all secondary pairings welcome.

“I’m told that you wish to bring back into negotiations the rule of Mt. Bur-Omisace,” Ashe says, without looking up from her meal - elegantly prepared and artfully displayed on the porcelain plate in front of her. She picks around the salad, for her stomach is still unsettled and she has not yet regained her appetite. The proceedings in the council chambers have done nothing to ease the discomfort.

Larsa’s boots click rhythmically against the tiles, stopping at the other side of the table where the servants have already prepared a glass of watered wine and the first course, ready whenever he begins the meal. Ashe has not waited for him.

“It is not I who wants it brought up, but Jylland,” he replies, pulling the seat out from the table, “and we are simply in a position where it becomes necessary to give them a few concessions for the good of everyone.”

“I have told you several times that I’m not budging on that particular subject.”

Larsa’s fingers slide over the folded napkin, depositing it into his lap. He doesn’t seem amused when Ashe finally meets his gaze, but neither does he seem to be in a sour mood, so perhaps there is less unfortunate news than she anticipated following the ambassador’s visit.

“I know how you feel about the Kiltias-”

“It is not how _I_ feel,” Ashe interrupts, “but how my _subjects_ feel. And Mt. Bur-Omisace remains in the hands of the Kiltias and his followers, whenever a new one rises up within the ranks.”

“I do not currently possess a large number of bargaining chips. This is one I need,” Larsa tells her, and begins pushing around the bits of his meal that he doesn’t like - the steamed greens to which he has never grown accustomed, and the bitter fruits from the riverbed in the Estersand.

Ashe sits back, lacing her fingers in her lap. “You have things, you simply don’t wish to give them.”

“It makes the same end, then, doesn’t it?” he asks, and raises one eyebrow as he takes a sip of his wine. It’s a good vintage tonight - perhaps Tomaj had a hand in it, as Ashe can usually taste the man’s influence when it comes to the bouquet within her glass. She had only a sip, but she knows that Larsa will enjoy it. The rich, mellow taste is more to his liking than her own.

“I assume if you wish for me to agree to this, you had something in mind to bribe me with,” Ashe tells him. “You know I will not give this up easily.”

“Do you give anything up easily?” Larsa asks, and this time he _does_ grin, a reminder of how young he still is. He’s grown tall, and at 18, he has nearly a hand span of height over her, but she still sees him as the boy he once was, eager and wise and ever hopeful. It’s a difficult perception to overcome.

She crosses her arms over her chest, trying to ignore the discomfort returning to her abdomen. “I want primary export privileges to Rozarria.”

“Gods,” Larsa chokes, and his wine glass rattles hard against the table surface. “You can’t be serious.”

“You _know_ it will do me more good than you, for we are still trying to bolster the economy after-”

“Yes, yes, after having it forcibly taken from you, but Ashe, not this.” Larsa sighs, rubbing his fingers at the bridge of his nose; he _is_ tired then, so the proceedings may have taken a toll. “We _need_ those trade agreements to keep our alliance in place. Rozarria is still wary, even with the years that have passed since Archadia’s aggression across the borders.”

His plaintive glance was obvious across the table, but Ashe stayed where she was, unmoving. She met his gaze for several long seconds, holding it firm, and when he sighed again and moved to pick up his wine once more, she said, “Rozarria will not break their alliance with you, and you know it.”

“If we lose this,” he starts.

“They will defer to Dalmasca first, and you have nothing to worry about.”

He snorts, ungraceful, and it almost makes her smile. “You just like being the one in control here.”

“I’ve never said otherwise,” she agrees.

“Then you will allow Jylland to become involved in the handling at Mt. Bur-Omisace?” he asks.

Ashe spreads her hands across the table, fingertips sliding over the dark wood grains, stained and smelling softly of the trees that grow clumped in the Giza Plains. Sometimes, the scent of things she had always known in her childhood brings back new memories now - of traipsing through the downpour in Giza, of the sweet-scented flowers in Ozmone, and the odd, otherworldly fog of the Feywood.

“I will allow them to petition the Kiltias, yes,” she says.

Larsa frowns. “He will say no.”

“I do not know what he will say,” Ashe disagrees, “but I will give them permission to petition the Kiltias themselves, and that is the furthest I can concede.”

Across the table, Larsa sits back. Ashe notes that he’s finished only half his salad, and waves away the servants who come to replace the dish with the main course. Neither of them will be eating much tonight, and she makes a note to tell the servants to disperse the leftovers to anyone within the castle who wishes to have them. No use letting a well-cooked meal go to waste.

“And your uncle?” he asks.

“Ondore has learned his lesson about meddling in my affairs,” Ashe says, and allows herself a smirk, because the Marquis is no doubt still smarting from the increase in his tariffs following his attempts to cut Bhujerba a bigger slice in Ivalice’s mining sanctions. “I do not think he’ll be keen to try it again so soon.”

“Sometimes, you scare me.”

Ashe laughs at that; she’d believe it if not for the smile on Larsa’s face. “I can assume that there have been no new reports of rebellion stirring in Old Archades?”

“While the cat is away, the mice will play,” Larsa says, and shrugs. His expression turns contemplative. “Still, I had my advisors look over the list of demands that was sent to the palace, and nothing they have asked for is anything we have denied them.”

“It will take some time to balance the distribution of wealth in the city,” Ashe tells him, gently.

“It is not quick enough for the starving.”

There is a long moment of silence. The servants come and collect both of their plates, sensing that the meal is effectively over. Ashe had hoped to get away without comment, but she can rarely escape Larsa’s sharp perceptiveness when it comes to their relationship.

“What of the council today?” he asks. “Are you feeling ill?”

“The council was fine,” Ashe says, ignoring the second question. “Agreements were reached which were acceptable for all parties involved. I will have the updated draft of the redistribution of the Cerobi Steppe and Balfonheim borders to you once I finish looking it over - it will require both our signatures.”

Larsa levels her with a long, quiet gaze, and Ashe is unsure what to make of it. The candles on the table are burning lower now, wax dripping down to the silver sticks; sometimes, when she looks into the flames, she thinks she can still feel the power of Mateus in her fingertips. She wonders if the creature would still come to her if she called. There are servants by the door, waiting for instructions, and Ashe signals them all to leave the chamber entirely - for privacy.

“How long will you stay?” Ashe asks, after they have gone and eager to find a new topic. “I assume you will head back to Archades by early next week for the ambassador’s visit.”

“A few days,” he agrees. “Perhaps four. I suppose it depends on how long you wish me here.”

“My opinion does not keep you in Rabanastre,” she says. “This is your home, too.”

He laughs, and it sounds cheerful enough, and some of the tightness around Ashe’s chest dissipates.

“Last week, I received word that the Bunansa heir was back in Archades,” Larsa says, almost suspiciously casual. His eyes flick up from their focused spot on the table. “I suspect you’ll be getting a visit soon. Perhaps tonight, if he is eager.”

“You are a little late. He docked in the Aerodrome an hour ago.”

“I know,” Larsa tells her, and his smile widens. “I just wanted to see if you would tell me.”

There is no point to speaking of things they both already know. Larsa’s return to Rabanastre changes nothing, as it never does. “Will you stay in tonight?” Ashe asks.

Larsa leans back with his arms over his head, popping out apparent cricks in his spine. “I do not know. I might feel up for a drink with the locals.”

“Or one in particular?”

Larsa’s smile is real and bright. “Perhaps so.”

“Be cautious,” Ashe warns, even though she knows it’s not necessary to do so - Larsa is not a boy any longer, no matter how he seems that way in her mind. He knows what comes with being a ruler, and though the king is popular in Rabanastre and their marriage pleasant and beneficial for both countries, there are always threats. “And greet her kindly for me.”

“I always do,” Larsa says. He stands, dinner finished, and rounds the table to her side. He looks even taller when she is seated. He pauses near her chair and then leans in, gray eyes warm. “Will you tell him tonight he’s to be a father?”

“I rather suppose I will have to, lest you do it for me,” Ashe sighs, annoyed that she has once again failed to hide anything from him. He sees too much for his own good sometimes.

Larsa’s chuckle is low and throaty, and he leans in the rest of the way to give her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “Do not worry. I think the news will give him an excuse to stay near the palace more.”

“Am I not reason enough?” Ashe asks, half-joking and trying to mask the other half with feigned amusement.

Her husband reaches for her hand, squeezing her fingers gently. “You are queen.”

“And you are king,” she answers back. She cups his face with her palm, kissing him on the cheek, and says, “Go to her. Treat her well. And thank you for Rozarria.”

“My lady,” he says, and then, whispered against her temple and half-muffled by her hair, adds, “congratulations.”

He gives her hand one final squeeze before leaving the dining hall, and Ashe sits for several more minutes by herself, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Then she stands, for it is nearing dusk, and she no doubt has an impatient visitor in her chambers, waiting for her to return. The way she knows both of them always will.


End file.
